Reading

It was beautiful witnessing our children’s blossoming friendship when they were in Miss Penny’s first-grade class—and by extension, our friendship too. That said, seeing as next year your kid will be in Mrs. Lang’s Second Grade Class, and mine in Mr. Dodd’s, I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye, because we will never see each other ever again.

I know, it’s hard. We grew so close. Together, we cut out hearts for the Valentine’s Day Party. Enjoyed each other’s cookies for the Christmas/ Hanukkah/ Diwali/ Kwanzaa Celebration. Trolled the Moms for Liberty at PTA meetings. Sang “So Long, Farewell” at the Parent/Teacher Talent Show. But from this moment on, whatever it was between you and me is over.

Now, you’re just somebody that I used to know.

It’s 1:17 a.m., and I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen drinking Dr Pepper Blackberry out of the can like it’s medicine for a heartbreak I haven’t earned yet. I haven’t cried today, but I can feel it coming, crouched behind my molars. This beverage might be the gateway.

The label promises “Delightfully Dark. Subtly Sweet,” which, coincidentally, is also how I described myself during a short-lived phase in college when I tried to brand myself as “the mysterious girl who reads Bukowski and wears velvet chokers.” It didn’t stick. Much like this flavor profile.

I pop the tab. The hiss is aggressive, like the soda is already judging me for buying it. Like it’s muttering, “This is what we’re doing now?” before surrendering to carbonation.

Blackberry hits first. Not a real blackberry. Not a berry that ever knew soil or sunshine. This is the kind of blackberry that grew up in a basement listening to My Chemical Romance and wearing fingerless gloves. It’s dramatic. It’s synthetic. It’s here to make you question everything you once believed about fruit.

A group of librarians is called a cardigan.

A collection of empty chairs is called an author reading.

A collection of Eric Carle books covered in spit-up is called a storytime.

A group of exhausted mothers covered in spit-up is also called a storytime.

A cluster of teens reading quietly is called a mystery.

A pile of books gathering dust is called a hold shelf.

A handful of change is called a budget.

A stack of books on a nightstand is called a magical thinking.

A group of people who only remember “the cover was blue” is called a patron.

A plastic prize tub of stickers is called a summer reading program.

A collection of missing pieces is called a community jigsaw.

A group of retirees is called a Scrabble night.

A shelf of books in alphabetical order is called a miracle.

A group of shushing librarians is called a cliché.

A group of underfunded libraries is called a tragedy.

It was just like her – my bold, dead mother – to show up in my life again. Or was grief playing tricks on me?

- by Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

Read on Psyche

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- by Michael Marshall

Read on Psyche

If you’ve spent any time at all on TikTok recently, you’ll have seen plenty of videos from young people despairing about life in the UK. Videos with captions like ‘Why is everything so expensive?’, ‘Why is rent so high?’, ‘Why can’t I get a doctor’s appointment?’ are going viral every day. With no clear answers, […]

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